


Burn

by alyse



Category: Blade: Trinity
Genre: F/M, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-07
Updated: 2011-05-07
Packaged: 2017-10-19 02:59:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyse/pseuds/alyse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He wasn't stupid - he knew enough to know that thinking of Danica, jerking off to thoughts of Danica, wasn't healthy, and that he was still letting his hatred of her define him </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/mmom/profile)[**mmom**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/mmom/)/[](http://mmom.dreamwidth.org/profile)[ **mmom**](http://mmom.dreamwidth.org/). Please heed the warnings.

**Title:** Burn  
 **Author:** alyse  
 **Fandom:** Blade: Trinity  
 **Pairing:** Hannibal King (imagined Danica Talos/Hannibal King and Abigail Whistler/Hannibal King)  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Warnings:** Rape imagery and references to past abuse.  
 **Word Count:** 580  
 **Status:** Complete, one shot  
 **Disclaimer:** Blade: Trinity, the motion picture, is owned by New Line Cinema. This is a not for profit fanfiction, and no copyright infringement is intended.  


-o-

Once, King had thought of Danica when he did this. He'd picture her face in his mind as his fingers tightened their grip, starting their slow glide up and down.

Her eyes would be wide, and her lipstick smudged and smeared from wrapping her mouth around his dick. He'd sink his fingers into her hair, pulling as hard as he could until tears ran down her face, and fuck her mouth mercilessly.

She'd be on her knees in front of him, where she fucking belonged, and he'd take her, fucking choke her. He'd stick his dick so far down her throat that she'd gag on it, spluttering and fighting for every single breath the way she'd made him fight for it more than once. Vampires couldn't die from choking - they healed too quickly for that - but even so, suffocation was a fucking **bitch** of a thing to experience. More than once, then and now, he'd woken up, clutching his throat and gasping, the air sucked from his lungs by the memories of Danica's touch.

And when he came, his balls tightening and a hard, heavy weight of hatred crystallising in his chest, he'd picture shooting his load into her face, watching it drip down off her chin and seeing all the things she made him feel - the fear, the hatred, the fucking humiliation - reflected in her ancient eyes.

It hadn't helped much, but in those days every little crumb of comfort he could wring from his imagination - every small, hidden thought he managed to keep from her - was a victory. And afterwards, when his nerves were still singing, and the tension in him ramped up rather than eased, he'd keep his eyes downcast, avoiding as much of her attention as he could for as long as he could keep his troublesome mouth shut, and hold tightly onto the few small, shattered pieces of himself that she'd left behind.

Even after Abigail had found him, even after Sommerfield had given him the cure, it was a hard habit to break. He wasn't stupid - he knew enough to know that thinking of Danica, jerking off to thoughts of Danica, wasn't healthy, and that he was still letting his hatred of her define him.

He just couldn't bring himself to care. Not at first.

These days he doesn't spare Danica much in the way of second thoughts. She's always there, like an itch in the back of his mind or something glimpsed from the corner of his eye, but she's just one of the vamps the Night Stalkers hunt. He's still not stupid even if his mouth hasn't stopped getting him into a whole world of trouble, and the familiar weight of iron-hard and red hot anger curls tightly inside him whenever he can't forget. But life moves on, and so does King.

These days, when he's tired of soap opera bimbos and inflated porn stars, he thinks of Whistler, and she's never on her knees. He pictures her sitting on the bed beside him, cross-legged and watching him with eyes that are reserved and serious, but never cruel. Sometimes she smiles, and it's unexpectedly sweet, like when he's startled a laugh out of her with one of his ludicrous jokes. Sometimes she even touches him with small, careful hands and gentle fingers. When he comes now, it's a relief, an actual release.

And afterwards, when he's loose-limbed and pleasantly buzzing, he has no problem looking Whistler in the eye.

The end


End file.
